Not for my older sister or myself. Summer meant it was time to get shipped to the third world. No mom. No dad. No other sisters. Very little English. No bug repellent.
My mother's side of the family hails from the island of Hispañola in the Caribbean; specifically, the Dominican Republic. I know what you're thinking--"Wow! The Dominican Republic? Fruity drinks, white sand beaches, room service and swim up bars! Your summers were AWESOME." No, not exactly.
You must be thinking about your college spring breaks spent in Punta Canta. I'd like to set the record straight and say that I have never been anywhere near Punta Canta. I spent my summers at my aunts house in Puerto Plata--where I could see the trash-ridden beach from the terrace, but was never allowed to go. After all, there could be BOYS on the beach, and if there were boys, they were probably naked. We were strictly forbidden from ever communicating with boys that weren't our cousins.
I learned some of my most valuable life lessons on that island. Life lessons more important than Bingo and how to make a friendship bracelet--if you can believe that.
If someone says don't drink the water, seriously, don't drink the water
Drinkable water in the DR is delivered a few times a week via water truck. The same truck delivers the weekly Fanta and 7Up rations in those cool glass bottles (but only under the condition that you returned said bottles to be filled). People were clear about the instructions not to drink water from anywhere other than those delivered jugs, but in my defense, the water I drank was via sno-cone, which I didn't think counted. Additionally, it was bought for me by someone who was supposed to be taking care of me. Anyway, I became violently ill, and to this day I maintain that it was Typhoid Fever (WAY beyond the strain that plagued the Oregon Trail). I was sweating profusely, vomiting, and there was no air conditioning. I spent at least 3-5 days in a vegetable state. I wasn't dead, but I wasn't alive either. You really don't need electricity to live
The electricity went out at least once a day, and usually it was out all through the night. I somehow lived to tell the tale. Really the biggest problem with no electricity was that it meant no air conditioning. We had a "generator" that never, EVER worked. No Power Puff girls in Spanish, no sega genesis, no Sabado Gigante, NO Soap Operas. Sweaty, desolate, mosquito/fire ant-ridden wasteland.
Despite literally being behind bars (we were absolutely NEVER allowed to leave the property on our own) my sister and I had a few different distractions when the electricity went out. First, we learned every card game under the sun. Second, if there were some random cousins around, we would put on variety shows for the adults. I distinctly remember singing both "My Heart will go on," and "Barbie Girl." I received a resounding, drunken Dominican applause. Despite my Grammy-level performance, I only got second place. My cousin Gabriela cried so it was obviously rigged so that she could win.
The Miracle of Life
Life and death played out before me nearly every summer, between watching death processionals on the street, seeing the 3 year long fall-out from Selena's death in 1995, or hearing the news of some cousin being born somewhere in the country. Life was having to kiss the cheek of my 99 year old great aunt "Mama Rosa" even though she had liver spots and I cried because I thought she was contagious. Death was the screeching of the chickens every single morning at 6 AM as they had their heads chopped off outside my window by the neighbors who lived in the tin house.
Despite these unsightly images, the more vivid memories and life and death came from watching the dogs my aunts owned. They had 3 chihuahuas: Gigi, Bandito, and the notorious Piloquin. Every summer like clock work Gigi would give birth to a new litter of bastard Chihuahuas (it was unclear who the father was--but I suspect they were all totally inbred). I watched her give birth just once, and then after that I was disgusted and steered clear of her birthing ceremonies. I only went near the puppies once they were properly cleaned and sufficiently furry. That was life. It was disgusting, but very real.
And then came death. Piloquin (though at the time my little gringa mind heard "Pillow King") was tyrannical, ruthless and ferocious. As much as I tried to stay out of his way, I couldn't run fast enough. I have scars on my hands from that dog. He eventually died and it was awesome. May Pillow King never find rest wherever he is now. My dog Fester has confirmed in my mind that there is indeed a heaven, because I can't imagine that he could ever meet a fate of anything less than eternal paradise--but I hope Pillow King is consciously, knowingly stuck in his cement grave forever.
Take Chances
My other aunt, whose house I also spent a lot of time in, had this monstrous dog named Dumbo (pronounced "Doom-bo"). We weren't even allowed to go near the dog, let alone dream of petting him. Upon our arrival Dumbo started up a chorus of fearsome roars that wouldn't cease until our departure. One night after a 50th wedding anniversary party, I went to sleep in an aunt's room upstairs where Dumbo usually was. He had been removed from that floor to protect the safety of the party-goers on the balcony. I woke up alone the next morning. I had no way of knowing whether or not anyone remembered that I was up there. No cellphone to call anyone for help. No means of making fire to send smoke signals. I was petrified. I stayed in that room for probably 5 hours just trembling, until finally I stood up and decided to meet my fate. I was either going to die like a soldier in the jaws of Dumbo, or I was going to return to the world.
Turned out Dumbo wasn't up there, so it was fine.
Something can transcend cultural/language barriers
...and that thing is Doritos. Doritos are the international language of peace and serenity. That's it though. Anything else could have been lost in translation. I'm convinced that the math is even different down there. For instance, in America motorcycles are generally meant for 2 people maximum. In the Dominican Republic, the maximum capacity for a motorcycle of equal or even smaller size is 5. Moms make everything better
When August would come around, I would wake up every single day just a little more excited. August meant my mom and my 2 remaining sisters were on the way--they'd arrive usually about mid-month. She stayed for two weeks, during which I would be at the beach every day, we'd frequent the Columbus Water Park that had no safety regulations, and we'd listen to the same Beatles tape over and over again in the rental car. It was pure paradise.
Looking back now, I wouldn't have changed my childhood summers. I'm glad that my Uncle Augustín had me hold his gun while he popped open a new bottle of Brugal Rum. I'm glad that when I lost one of my teeth, a very sentimental aunt took the tooth and made a necklace out of it--which I think she STILL wears. If I had been shipped to Haiti, I probably would be singing a different tune.
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